Doesn’t hurt

Today I still feel confused and in touch with the energy of the universe but it’s not orange. It is light blue and it floats me on a cloud.

9-5-11     12:41pm

Last night a few hours of mania. Today the desert rain.

I am so tired. SO tired.

It’s Monday.
The air is quiet. Empty…
I still feel confused but my head doesn’t hurt.
Doesn’t hurt.
Doesn’t hurt.
I hear the rhythms of the rain that isn’t falling.
Summer rain.
And I am hungry.
Doesn’t hurt.
Doesn’t hurt.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Pure Orange Light

Last night I lied in bed for awhile experiencing the orange energy of the universe. It was just shy of scary, just beyond fascinating. I knew it was not standard but wrote through the experience.

9-5-11     1:10am

She lives just beyond the bright lights I see when I close my eyes.

I feel dizzy.
And confused.
And off-balance.
And it’s hard to breathe.
My body tingles.

Take your angry energy out of my room.

If I wasn’t lying down I would prob’ly collapse.

Very weak.
The spirit moves through me.
And the spirit is me

My father is talking to me.
All I hear is gibberish.
I keep thinking of different people.
They join into the chorus.
They’re all talking to me.
What do they say?

Someone I don’t know grabs for my right boob. I need to fall asleep.

Tell me a story.

The energy of the universe is open to me, orange at it’s mouth and breathing.

Goodnight, moon.
You see me.
Goodnight, moon.
You be me.
I not be myself, the who I be?
I like be me.
Goodnight, moon.
I miss me.

God, take me into the light.
I made love to the universe.
I now carry its child.
Our child.
The dark itchiness is gone now.
Only pure orange light.
Feel the glow.
Do you feel the glow?

I am part of the light & it’s part of me.
The darkness within it now owns.
Every part of me.
The orange universal light.
7 in the night.
We are owned by the light.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

And the story is me

9-5-11     12:18am

I feel like there’s someone telling a story in my head. I can feel the rhythm but I can’t hear her. She stands behind a screen telling her story in a mic.

“Once upon a time,” she says to a captive audience. I listen. I hear her and I listen. There are no words. I hear her. She fascinates me.

I hear purple and the sound of hoof-beats. I hear the sunset. I hear the birds. She sings to me the story that has no words, the story that lives in me.

When I hear the words I write them. When I feel the words I dance them. When I see the words I watch in wonder. The words, they live in me, and they are me. Like God. I hear the beat of the story with letterless words and it lives inside of me. Inside of me. I hear the story. And the story is me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

I dabble in the secret things

9.4.11   10:20pm

I dabble in the secret things.
They are my specialty.
The things one mentions not in light, not in reality.

I dabble in the secret things that make men twist and cry.
The shame that no one talks about that hides within your eye.

I dabble in these things ’cause I have secrets of my own.
They tremble at my footsteps.
They know that they are owned.

But still these secrets eat me, follow into the night.
They fill my soul with worry they might one day see the light.

And so I keep to other’s secrets as my great specialty.
And I hope that no one finds out what is secretly eating me.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

I am the yellow clock – unabridged

6-5-11     11:12pm

I am afraid of this clock.
I found it staring up at me from a pile of magazine clippings.
This clock is my life.

I have no concept of time, which usually doesn’t bother me. But lately the things I have in place of numbers have fallen away and I am not able to navigate very well. My confusion is growing by the day, and I can’t process or remember things. I am so tired. I don’t know what’s going on.

I am the yellow clock.
My motor keeps on ticking, even though my hands are broken and my numbers have fallen away. I would buy it. The tick’s all I care about anyway. I don’t want to know what time it is.

Time increases my anxiety. You have to do this right away or that by tomorrow. Hurry up. Call him now. Answer the phone. Have you sent that email? Did you prepare for tomorrow? What’s tomorrow? I don’t even know today. And I don’t care about tomorrow. Can’t you see?

I don’t know what’s going on in my brain. Whatever it is is good at what it’s doing. Last year I thought I was gonna die, and I didn’t. But I’m not convinced that I’m here to stay. Or even if I am how much longer I will be Michelle. I’m scared because I don’t know it, I can’t control it and it won’t go away. It is slowly taking me.

The clock cannot fight the clock maker. I can’t even see what He’s doing. I just watch how it affects me. I once was an intelligent person. Now it’s a struggle to order dinner. I don’t understand things. My emotions are not in my control. I don’t read. I write when I can. And can is fading. I can’t remember. (staring…) Please.

I am the yellow clock.
If you find me please tell me what time it is and what that time means.

—–

What is the purpose of a clock?
To be a foundation, a guide. To know what’s going on at all times and to be right.
To always be on, to be perfect, to propel the world.

So what happens when a clock does not work anymore? How do I become an art piece? What do I do when it’s my job to sound the alarm and I don’t know what time it is? When I am the fire alarm and I’ve forgotten what fire is? When I know what fire is but I can’t make a sound?

I don’t know how to be an art piece. I just know I need to learn.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

I am the yellow clock

6-5-11     11:12pm

I am afraid of this clock.
I found it staring up at me from a pile of magazine clippings.
This clock is my life.

I have no concept of time, which usually doesn’t bother me. But lately the things I have in place of numbers have fallen away and I am not able to navigate very well. My confusion is growing by the day, and I can’t process or remember things. I am so tired. I don’t know what’s going on.

I am the yellow clock.
My motor keeps on ticking, even though my hands are broken and my numbers have fallen away. I would buy it. The tick’s all I care about anyway. I don’t want to know what time it is.

Time increases my anxiety. You have to do this right away or that by tomorrow. Hurry up. Call him now. Answer the phone. Have you sent that email? Did you prepare for tomorrow? What’s tomorrow? I don’t even know today. And I don’t care about tomorrow. Can’t you see?

I don’t know what’s going on in my brain. Whatever it is is good at what it’s doing. Last year I thought I was gonna die, and I didn’t. But I’m not convinced that I’m here to stay. Or even if I am how much longer I will be Michelle. I’m scared because I don’t know it, I can’t control it and it won’t go away. It is slowly taking me.

The clock cannot fight the clock maker. I can’t even see what He’s doing. I just watch how it affects me. I once was an intelligent person. Now it’s a struggle to order dinner. I don’t understand things. My emotions are not in my control. I don’t read. I write when I can. And can is fading. I can’t remember. (staring…) Please.

I am the yellow clock.
If you find me please tell me what time it is and what that time means.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Melting

1-3-11     2:46am

My eyes
They melt & run down my face
Law & Order will not make me better
I feel confused, distracted
Stressed.

I feel so sad
So desperate & lonely
I miss S-
I need a hug.

I work really hard to stay stable…
But I can’t control what goes on outside me.
I can’t be on my own.
It makes me crazy.

I haven’t seen S- in 2 weeks.
Mind keeps telling me she’s dead,
I’ll never see her again,
I’ll be alone forever.
I’m cranky.
I fight with my mom.

I don’t understand.
My brain works slowly.
Annoyed M- in the card game.
Let me work at my pace.

I don’t want to go
Please don’t leave me.
Please
Please
You’re hurting me.

If you take down the walls of an aquarium, how’s the water supposed to stay in?
Holes take longer but you still lose it all.

Jenga explains everything.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2011

Dear Daddy (Nov 2003)

written on the 2nd anniversary of my dad’s death, posted now for Jingle’s Poetry Potluck (and because I’ve been thinking about it).

Dear Daddy,

Need me.
Feed me, the way I fed you.
Comb my hair.
Don’t tear.
DON’T TOUCH ME

Where did you go?
I don’t know.
I NEVER KNOW
And for as much as I’d like to I can’t, pray I never will.

The bruises, restraints, overpowering drugs.
The anger
The incredible loneliness.
Talk to me Daddy.
Be one of the voices in my head.

Why did you hit me that day?
Why didn’t you stay on that mountain?
GET OUT OF MY LIFE – hold me tight
If you could come back and do it again, would you?
Would you call me your child?
Why in the sky do the clouds always shroud the image of your body from my wandering eyes?

© Michelle Routhieaux 11/17/03

I’ll Be Home for Christmas

(written during flashbacks of my dad after listening to I’ll Be Home for Christmas)
12-17-10 10:15ish pm

I’ll Be Home for Christmas

See the color
Feel his fingers, his breath

Bathroom floor
Tears flowing
All I want is a family.

I want someone to take care of me
To love me
To fight with
To sit quietly with
My dad.
I just want my dad.

Little trees
Pine needles
Running Away
Space People
Nurses’ Stations
Wristbands

The floors
The ceiling –

Laundry.
(deep breath)
Laundry.

I miss my dad.
For What he was
What he wasn’t
What he could’ve been
What he taught through the silence I’m not sure I’ll ever learn
But I’m still grateful for it.

Why didn’t you stay on that mountain?
Why did you choose to come home?
Your life from my view is a map I don’t want to follow
But it’s my map.
I don’t get to choose.

Did you like jazz music?
What helped you get through it all?
I’m pretty sure it was your space people.
Crazy keeps us alive.
When I hugged you, could you let go or did you not want to?
I love you.
I want you to love me too.

So I put on a face and everything seems alright.
But inside I die
A little more each night.

I am sitting in a bathroom terrified of my life.
It’s just life
But it’s so much more than that.
This is IT.
Don’t you get it?
I’m not coming back.
There aren’t any do-overs.

I’m scared…
So scared.

S- wants me to sing tonight.
She knows it makes me feel better.
I don’t want to be on display.
I just want to be held.
Please, God.
Comfort me.

I am a child in need. –

I am worried about S- leaving.
I’m so scared of losing her.
So scared.
So scared.

Last night at the W-?
I am scared.
And I can’t seem to pull it together.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

I am scared

From my journal tonight. The dialogue is between me and me and me.

11-18-10     2:12am

I keep hearing the chorus of “You are More” by Tenth Avenue North. I feel the urge to say I’m sorry over and over again. Please. Just please don’t leave me.

I’m cold. I’m lying in bed. Today was the ninth anniversary of my dad’s death. It wasn’t much different than any other day. I saw my therapist, had dinner with Mom, took a nap and went online. I recall going to choir but that wasn’t today. I wanted to go to the cemetery but we didn’t. It closes at sunset.

I feel so angry, and sad. Helpless. Watching an illness is good training in codependence. It compeletely control you and is out of your control.

I’ve been napping in the early evening. I haven’t felt good and I have nothing to do. I can’t handle working on the endless tasks for the group. I need the group to leave me alone. To give me some space. You don’t own me. I don’t appreciate waking up to calls from strangers, urgent FB chat crisis pings, or 75 emails in a week about stupid shit I don’t care about from 1 person. LEAVE ME ALONE. (sigh) I need some respite.

I feel guilty tonight for telling a friend I wish her learning curve was steeper. It’s true but it’s selfish. It has to do with fly paper – a model of my feelings. Whatever she feels I feel. I can’t control it. If she’s happy, I feel joy. If she’s sad, I feel pain. When she hurts, I hurt. It’s like voodoo magic. Whatever’s there sticks. I should be angry at myself for not being able to control this phenomenon, but that reminds me I have no power and is scary. And I’m already scared enough. So I hope these people who affect me avoid pain. Because I feel that pain. You know? There’s no fix. But avoiding pain is impossible. I don’t understand.

I’ve been thinking about independence.
___

I am so scared. I can’t run away. I can’t get away from me. But I can’t stay here with me either. I will kill her, put her out of her misery.

Who is she?

She is that girl, that little girl playing and crying for her daddy. The one who wishes on dandelions and smiles and swings.

I love her.

Yes. She is beautiful.

Why does she have to die?
Why are you going to kill her?

Because she won’t stop crying. She is hurt and there’s no way to fix her and I can no longer handle her crying. I can’t take it.

Girl: I’m scared. Daddy, please. Make it go away. Please, Daddy. Why aren’t you listening? Why can’t you help me?

How often do you see her?

Every day. She keeps tugging at my shirt. Play with me. Hold me. Comfort me. Please, just make it go away.

I can’t take it. She’s driving me insane.

Do you love her?

Yes! That’s why I have to kill her. She deserves peace and so do I.

What would bring you peace?

If she wasn’t sick.

SHUT UP! I’m not talking to you.

If she wasn’t sick. And she wasn’t stuck in time. And if people understood that she’s only 7.

She is the hope. Why kill the hope?

So the rest of me can die in peace.

Do you really want to die?

No. I want to be free. I want to heal her with a magic hug. I want to never feel alone again. To never feel helpless. To be taken care of.

Can you give her comfort?

I wish.

Girl: Please, Daddy. Don’t leave me. I don’t understand. Please. Somebody help me. Get off the phone and pay attention. This teddy bear can’t cure me.

She sounds distressed.

She’s almost always distressed. Except when she’s exploring or brainstorming. Then she’s happy. Or spending time with people she loves. She’s like a cat. She needs comfort.

Does she get it?

Sometimes. Not enough to survive. I give her drugs to numb the pain. But they can’t fix her. She’s going to die.

She is broken.

Yes. She is broken. And she is all that I have. And when she dies I die. I want to hold her in my arms and make it better but I can’t. But she still keeps tugging on my shirt.

Where is my daddy? Why doesn’t he love me?
How do angels fly?
Can I have an ice cream? …
Hello?

I can’t save her. (deep breath) I can’t.

But you can’t kill her either.

I know. I love her too much. She’s all I’ve got.

Do unicorns fly?
Can I get one as a pet?

She still believes, you know. In hope and God and love and faith. And unicorns. She loves everything good and beautiful, always stops to smell the flowers. She believes in Santa and knows that people are good.

And you don’t.

I try… I try.
It’s like trying to believe you are blessed as you watch your house burn to the ground.
I am blessed. I just can’t.

She is your bunk mate.

She is my best friend.

A dilemma.

Quite. (long pause)
I feel rage and I am scared.
I am scared.
I am scared.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Dazed, Dazzled & Confused

9-14-10                3:45am

I’m so tired. I miss –. It’s only been 3 days since I saw her but it feels like forever. I haven’t been thinking about my last journal entry (not posted here). I just miss her hug.

I finished printing all of my blog posts tonight. Looking at the stack makes me feel accomplished. (I hear that guy whistling outside again. At least I think I know who it is.) I started blogging February 21st and the notebook is almost full.

Hard copy of my blog


It’s just a handful of the writing I’ve done. It’s interesting to see it all in one place.

(sigh) I feel so tired. I know it’s almost 4am but the amount of time I sleep doesn’t affect my level of tiredness.

I hosted a lecture tonight at my group. Stupid damn Monday night football screwed it up. The last 3 lectures I averaged 60 people. Tonight? 20. Grrr…

I need someone to talk to. It gets lonely in my quiet kitchen at 2am when I’m filled with thoughts and anxious energy and have no place to put them, no reason to say. I keep hearing “Silent All These Years” by Tori Amos.

There is something about speech that is soothing. When the words are inside me they stir in my heart. They make my soul tremble and throat ache. Just the vibration of sound helps ease the tension. But where do you put the sound at 4 in the morning when everyone’s asleep? Reading my writing out loud can be such a release. (street sweeper)

There is so much to say and yet I feel quiet… My eyes water, my neck twitches. Dogs bark and the cars fly by. The fridge is noisy. I think Mom’s asleep. I’m curled up in the big chair writing. It was my dad’s chair, although he never used it. I miss him. I wish I could talk to him now and that he could answer back. I need his wisdom. I need his experience.

(break to hear music in my head)

I can’t, I can’t.
I can’t right now.
Colors, shapes & music.
I feel confused now.
Touch. Touch.
Let me sort something.
Dazed, Dazzled & Confused
He ordered the test.
Just sing. Just sing.
Please sing.
Please sing. Just don’t stop singing.
Thoughts Go away, go away.
Go away.

-M

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Tick Tick Tick

8-22-10                2:56am

I was listening to Sacha talk to this guy on Friday about his son, a singer who’s not living up to his potential. And there was something she said that sticks with me. It’s a very small and powerful phrase. “Tick tick tick.” He’s 24 and time’s a wastin’. There’s not much left.

It has a different meaning for me, but it’s generally the same.

Tick tick tick
Your life is almost over
Tick tick tick
Before you melt away
Should you stay one more day
What will you be?
Will you be free?
Will your dreams come true or will you watch them melt away, today?

Tick tick tick
I don’t know what time it is
Tick tick
Or what day, or the year
Tick
I don’t care.
I just want to be happy.
Tick
How to be happy … what was I saying?

Tick tick
I know the time is running
Tick tick tick
Faster than I can see
Tick tick tick
And soon I will catch up,
Or maybe it will catch me.
But hopefully when we meet we’ll have some good stories to tell,
Of dancing (tick) and singing (tick) and feeling mighty swell.
Cuz when we meet up (tick) I won’t be walking away.
Tick tick tick.
Just give me one more day.

I know my clock is ticking, in every meaning of the phrase. It makes me quiet and fills my face with vapor. Tick tick. (close my eyes and sigh…) I won’t be walking away.

(thought continued in So Let’s Play)

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010

Christmas

I wrote this while listening to Sacha sing tonight at the Westgate. Quite an experience.

7-9-10                  8:29am

Tonight here it is like Christmas. I close my eyes and expect to walk outside into whipping wind and snowflakes. I would feel the cold on my cheeks and smile and flinch. Feel cozy by a fire, like warm maple syrup, and cuddle up. Watch children run around and write to Santa.

Tonight there are people talking all around me. It’s annoying but I float above them. Twirl around in the sky.

Shhhhhh…  Listen!  Magic.

© Michelle Routhieaux 2010